After
by Spark Writer
Summary: Six months have passed since Sherlock and John's admission of feelings for one another. Things are hectic as always; the good doctor receives some unexpected news, fan girls are everywhere, marriage may be in the cards for several couples, Mycroft's jealous, Anderson has a secret, and the world's only consulting detective and his blogger find some very interesting places to snog.
1. Six Months

_Six Months_

Before John, there were several things Sherlock considered pleasurable. This list included nicotine patches, documenting the purification of various animals' flesh over the course of a week, retreating to his mind palace, delving into an unsolved murder, picking loose threads from his coat (old habit from primary school days), and taking baths in nearly scalding water while reciting the first two-hundred and thirty numbers of pi. Now, the activities comprising this list were no more than remains of a bitter past, when Sherlock's greatest joys had been disgusting, tedious, or experienced in complete isolation.

This morning, Sherlock awoke to one of his most coveted new pleasures; John kissing him vigorously, fisting the lapels of Sherlock's pyjamas and mumbling something about the number six. On occasion, this annoyed Sherlock—John snogging him before he had a chance to record the previous night's dreams in his moleskin notebook. But, at the moment, Sherlock would not have cared to write down his dreams if they involved a ride atop of a fire-breathing dragon and a trip to Middle Earth.

He returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and there were a few tense moment of sexually charged thrashing and pillows sent flying and hands in hair and—"Damn," said John, as his mobile burst into a truly atrocious rendition of "Thrift Shop." The good doctor detangled himself from the blankets as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I would literally rather your ringtone be a recording of Lestrade saying, "It's a drugs bust!" a half-dozen times in a row," Sherlock remarked, as John snatched his jacket off the floor and began digging through the pockets.

"It was a free download," John retorted, "and need I remind you that I have to sit through the first eight bars of Beethoven's Ninth every time Mycroft fancies a chat?" He discovered his phone in the left pocket and drew it out, ignoring Sherlock's exaggerated display of relief.

"Oh, hi, Harry," said John, shooting Sherlock a look of frank surprise and wandering out of the bedroom.

Sherlock slid out of bed and slipped into his second-best dressing gown.

"No, you didn't," John was protesting loudly from the kitchen. Sherlock abandoned his search for his cherished slippers, and stepped barefoot into the hall.

"Harry, we're not—we weren't—absolutely not," John concluded, sounding both horrified and sternly parental. Curiosity piqued, Sherlock ventured a bit farther from the bedroom and leaned against the wall to listen.

"Just because we're together," spluttered John, "does not mean we do _that_. God, Harry. I'm your brother! Why the hell d'you find it entertaining to imagine doing something effing pornographic?"

A slight smirk worked its way onto Sherlock's face.

There was a pause, and then John spoke again. "It's brilliant. Yeah. I know. He's outrageously stubborn and petulant and frankly Lestrade—yeah, the DI—frankly he has a point about him being childish at times, but Sherlock's just…"

Sherlock peered around the doorframe into the kitchen and gazed intently at the back of John's head.

"Fucking tremendous," said John.

Harry must have said something amusing because suddenly John was laughing and the moment was gone, blown away like dandelion seeds in a gust of wind. But Sherlock was still reeling, lost in a tumult of lust and admiration and shock, because this was the first time something had taken his breath away. And how strange and lovely a feeling that was.

"Right, yeah," John was saying, when Sherlock had pulled himself together enough to follow the remainder of the conversation. "Oh, and Harry, today's our six month anniversary."

Sherlock smiled, thinking of the days when they had just got together and how utterly important anniversaries had been to them. Their first twenty-four hours were celebrated with champagne and a scavenger hunt for cryptic love letters written from Sherlock to John. An aside: the sitting room sofa was never the same since. Their first week was celebrated with a nocturnal stroll along the Thames and a game of endorphin-drunk charades, in which John was Lestrade and Sherlock, playing Mycroft, laughed so hard he fell into the river and had to be hauled out by two individuals from the homeless network and an old man who offered them all a really astounding deal on cocaine. Their first month was celebrated with dinner at Angelo's—free of charge—and a trip to the cinema to see The Hobbit. Wherein Sherlock became so desperately turned on by Bilbo Baggins—who bore a truly incredible likeness to John Watson—he had to slip out of the theatre and sprint to the loo where he ran cold water over his hands to stop them from trembling.

After that, though, anniversaries had become somewhat neglected, no more special than any other time John and Sherlock spent together. Therefore, Sherlock was quite pleased that John had remembered this one, though he did hope it would conclude itself more successfully than the last.

He pulled away from the doorway as John bid Harry goodbye and was halfway back to the bedroom when John shouted, "Happy sixth month anniversary, you gorgeous, incredible bugger!"

"I washed the goat urine out of the fridge," Sherlock rumbled in reply.

John appeared at the doorway, smiling. "My anniversary gifts always did pale in comparison." And he tossed Sherlock his slippers.

* * *

**A/N: Hi. :) To those of you who read Undeniably Johnlocked, you may me recall mentioning a sequel. I would have liked to have written and posted it _long_ before this, but I had a horrid lack of ideas and motivation-so I'm thrilled that I finally have a 2 thousand word outline and some inspiration. I just couldn't stay away from Johnlock, it's too wonderful. You can think of this as the UJ sequel, but it can also stand on its own...I did change the timing of things a bit, because come on, Sherlock and John at The Hobbit has got to be in there somewhere. Right? :D**

**Love to hear what you think. Stay tuned!**

**-Spark Writer- **


	2. Anniversaries and Unexpected News

_Anniversaries and Unexpected News_

"Indian," said Sherlock.

"Thai," said John.

"Italian."

"No."

"Vietnamese?"

"Definitely not."

Sherlock stopped wrestling with his tie, and looked at John. "Why Thai food? We had that three days ago."

"Well, I fancy it again." John peered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowned. "I missed a spot," he murmured, rubbing a hand over his jaw where the beginnings of a sandy beard showed. He reached for the razor, but before he could do anything more than pick it up, Sherlock seized it from him.

"What are you doing?"

"It's dull," Sherlock explained, examining the razor. "There's a seventy-five percent chance you would cut yourself if you used it. Eighty-three percent chance, really," he added, noticing a hazardous bit of rust developing on one of the blades.

"Thanks for warning me," said John. "Be sure to chuck it in the rubbish, will you? Wouldn't do to forget and bleed to death tomorrow morning."

"Certainly not," agreed Sherlock, "though it would make for a rather interesting cause of death, wouldn't it?" He ducked John's swat of a face cloth just in time.

"Besides," said Sherlock, slipping gracefully from the bathroom, "it's our anniversary. If you choose to walk into the restaurant nude, it's no one's business."

"Well there's one way to get you to sit down to Pad Thai, tonight." John grinned rakishly and a sudden heat worked its way down Sherlock's neck.

"Oh, on a different note—will you text Mycroft and tell him not to bother us while we're at dinner?"

"Already did."

"What? When?"

"Ten minutes ago."

John arched an eyebrow. "Ten minutes ago you were showering."

"Haven't you ever texted by holding your mobile out of the shower?"

"No and I haven't met the Prime Minister, either," John said sarcastically. "So, what…you typed your message while not actually looking at the keys?"

"Texting requires fingers, not eyes."

"Not for the rest of us mere mortals, it doesn't."

"You always assume I'm insulting other people's intelligence."

"Maybe because you called me an idiot just hours after we'd met." John winked. "I'm only joking, love. What did Mycroft say?"

"Oh, something along the lines of: _Felicitations, both of you. I shall try to restrain myself from interrupting your activities. _

"Activities," echoed John. "That sounds a bit lewd."

"One can only hope," said Sherlock. "And you're not idiot. And Thai it is."

-**221B-**

"I still can't believe you don't know how to use chopsticks," chuckled John, deftly plucking a piece of sautéed chicken from his fried rice.

"It's not something I like to advertise," admitted Sherlock, who, after fumbling with the torturous devices for half an hour while John giggled helplessly from across the table, had taken to impaling his food with the pointier end of one chopstick.

"Not many blokes can pull off the food-stabbing approach. Consider yourself superior. Oh wait; you've already got that covered."

Sherlock granted John a look of annoyance. "If I weren't completely wrapped around your little finger, I'd reply so scathingly to that little comment your tympanic membrane would melt."

"I'm extremely touched." John popped another piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed vigorously. "You need a case," he remarked suddenly.

"Oh?"

"Yes," conceded John. "I know you're terribly bored because you memorized Shakespeare's forty-second sonnet, wallpapered the loo in one night, wrote a scorching seven-hundred word critique in my blog's comments section, and watched The Pirates of the Caribbean, twice."

"I thought you'd gone to sleep when I was watching it the second time through," mused Sherlock.

"I was trying to, but I kept envisioning you in a pirate costume. My god."

Sherlock leaned forward a fraction of an inch, watching John's pupils consume his irises, watching a subtle flush bloom on his cheeks. "Are you—"

He never finished his sentence; John's damned mobile had interrupted them for the second time that day.

"Jesus, sorry," said John, popping out of his seat and dashing for the door.

If it was Mycroft, Sherlock thought murderously, the government official could kiss his arse goodbye.

While he came up with elaborate schemes of revenge in the event that it _was_ his brother, Sherlock fussed with the neck of his water glass, poked their candle's melted wax with his clean chopstick, and shifted in his seat, trying to get a proper look at John through the small front window. Just as he was tipping dangerously to the left (an anxious waiter hovered nearby, ready to act should his customer lose his balance and topple to the floor), when John came charging back into the restaurant, eyes alight with an excitement that was usually associated with late-night snogging and jam.

"Fuck!" he shouted, to the great dismay of the wait staff within earshot.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock, clinging to the table's edge and quickly tipping his chair back onto all four legs. "You're happy, so that rules out Mycroft as a possibility."

"What? Er, yeah, no—it wasn't him. It was a call from some literacy executive chap telling me I've won UK's Blogger of the Year Award!"

"Excellent!" said Sherlock. "John, that's wonderful news, congratulations!"

"Thanks," said John. "I'm dead chuffed, really. And totally surprised."

"I'm not."

"Says the man who takes it upon himself to thoroughly critique the grammar construct and paragraph configuration of each blog post I write."

"Polish a rock and it becomes a diamond." Sherlock broke into a smile, a real one, and squeezed John's hand across the table. "Is there going to be some sort of ceremony?"

"Yes, two Fridays from now, he said. Seven o'clock in the evening."

"Brilliant," said Sherlock.

"I know what you're thinking, Sherlock, and no; I don't want you cajoling everyone we know into attending."

"You can't possibly refuse me."

"Why the hell's that?"

"John, you once let me braid your hair in corn rows for a case. This is child's play. But," Sherlock added, "in case you're feeling particularly defiant tonight, I have something that may change your mind."

"Doubtful," said John, though he looked somewhat amused.

Sherlock pulled a Tesco's gift card from his coat pocket. "Jam," he explained, pushing the card across the table.

"Oh, god." John pulled a face. "I'm done for." He pocketed the gift card.

"Like clockwork," said Sherlock and lifted his glass. "Here's to you and your success as a blogger."

John lifted his Sake and they clinked glasses. "Here's to six months," he murmured. They clinked glasses again.

"Here's to another crazy-arsed, wonderful night together." They clinked glasses a third time.

After that, they began coming up with ridiculously weird toasts, like, "Here's to electric toothbrushes," and "Here's to Starbuck's decaf lattes with whipped cream and chocolate shavings," and "Here's to walking home in the rain." And eventually Sherlock and John became so silly, so helplessly happy, that they clinked too hard and John's glass shattered and Sake was everywhere and it was the best anniversary they'd ever had.

"Here's to starting over," said John, as they mobbed up the spilled beer.

"To starting over," Sherlock said softly. Then he leant over and kissed John deep and hard, utterly unafraid of judgment for perhaps the first time in his life.

* * *

**Hello Sherlockians! I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but I do have most of the chapters sketched out. :) Hopefully more than once a week and definitely more often as my end of spring schedule lightens up. PLEASE REVIEW! And be kind.**

**Thank you!**

**Here's to Johnlock,**

**-Spark Writer- **


	3. Famous

_Famous_

And just like that, Dr. John Watson was a celebrity. Once the greater public got wind of the fact that he had won a huge award for his blogging, the spotlight left Sherlock and landed firmly on John. The press swarmed to their flat in droves, intrepid photographers snapped pictures of the doctor whenever he ventured beyond the front door, and their answer phone was inundated with journalists from various papers asking for interviews. Suddenly the whole world wanted to know if John liked cricket or had ever gone streaking in Buckingham Palace, or what exactly had happened the night he nearly didn't survive. Suddenly, John's history, ambitions, and goals were of great importance; he wasn't the ignored, loyal sidekick any longer. He mattered.

Obviously, Sherlock was extremely proud of John and not at all jealous, but he was incensed by the press' lack of privacy. Once, in a fit of vitriol, he took his half-finished tea to the sitting room, opened a window, and dumped the contents of the mug over the head of a particularly dogged reporter. And then there was the time he discovered Mrs. Hudson handing out biscuits to a group of wildly enthusiastic Watsonian fanboys—Sherlock couldn't recall the entire sequence of events, but he was fairly certain he smashed his landlady's best serving platter and called the men "Daft, depraved stalkers from the bowels of hell." Remarkably, John never lost his head nor did his ego inflate in the slightest, but he did apologize almost hourly to Sherlock for the inconvenience his sudden notoriety created. That was always nice; it gave Sherlock a proper excuse to kiss his army doctor silent.

**-221B-**

"Sherlock, you've got to see this."

Sherlock glanced up from his dog-eared copy of _The Times_. "Something wrong?"

"This is just weird," muttered John. He was staring out of the living room window onto the pavement below, incredulous.

"Don't tell me; someone's stripped and written your initials all over their bare extremities." Sherlock gave him an arch look. "You know as well as I do it was only a matter of time."

"You're a bloody comedian," John said with dry irony. "Now get over here and look at this."

Sherlock got up from the kitchen table and joined John at the window. A group of teenaged girls were chatting animatedly on the sidewalk in front of 221B, casting hopeful glances at the door every now and then. This was all fine, but what really drove Sherlock round the twist was the fact that they were all sporting cable-knit jumpers, army jackets, and jeans. The supposed leader of the god forsaken little fan club, a heavyset girl with an appalling case of acne, was also wearing this John-like ensemble, though she also had a jar of jam in one hand and—was that an actual cane in the other?!

Sherlock. Saw. Red.

"This is unacceptable, uncalled for and unnatural," he hissed, striding furiously to the door. "Stereotypical," he growled, "Offensive—"

"Sherlock."

"And utterly unoriginal!" He paused at the door, agitated. "John, where are my shoes?"

"Wha—"

"I need my shoes, _get me my shoes_!" After watching John poke helplessly about in the piles of miscellanea, Sherlock threw up his arms in a flail of frustration and went out to confront the fangirling idiots in his socks.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" he asked, storming shoeless into the knot of girls.

"We're JWOF," one of them said helpfully.

"If that's an acronym for John Watson's Official Fanclub, you're even stupider than I anticipated," said Sherlock. Without further greeting, he turned on the acne-ridden girl and promptly exploded.

"What do you call this?" he barked, snatching her cane away from her. "Some sort of cheap, distasteful parody of a limp caused by a life-threatening injury?" The girl looked surprised, but undaunted. Sherlock pressed on. "You will not, _will not_, ever mock, ridicule, or in any way poke fun at my—at John's psychosomatic limp. Not goddamn ever."

Swearing did not usually come naturally to Sherlock, but today it spilled out of him on a tide of white rage.

"Well that's not exactly fair," said the leader girl, "Seeing as we came all the way here from East Sussex just to get a little glimpse of—Jesus Christ!" She broke off, staring at a spot over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock snapped around and found himself face to face with John, who was staring back at him with something like adoration. "What you said—" he muttered. "Thank you."

"Not at all." Sherlock stepped aside and the girls surrounding him all gasped at once in an unattractive wheeze of welcome.

"It's him!" they cried shrilly. "Bloody hell! Him, here—finally! Him!"

Taken out of context, thought Sherlock, a recently deceased man might have a similar conversation with himself upon meeting God. The numbskulls.

John was looking a bit wary, like someone who had just spotted a great hairy spider on his shower curtain. "Er, hello," he said awkwardly. "Nice to see you all."

Leader girl had brandished a notepad seemingly out of thin air, and pulled a pen from behind her right ear. "I'm a columnist for my school paper and I'd really appreciate it if you could give me an artistic statement." She smiled winningly at John.

"I haven't really got prepared 'artistic statements' floating round my head," said John, "so I'm afraid you'll have to do without one."

"Damn. Autograph?"

"Certainly," said John, taking the girl's pen and paper. "It's fine," he added in reply to Sherlock's look of consternation.

When John's attention was safely diverted, she glared pointedly at Sherlock and mouthed an extremely rude word.

Enraged, he snatched the ludicrous jar of jam from her. A voice in his subconscious argued that it was difficult to look aggressive in any situation while clutching a jar of jam. That aside, Sherlock Holmes had a knack for looking intimidating just by being himself.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John capped the pen, looking keenly at the detective.

"Demonstrating the consequences for being repugnant and impolite," hissed Sherlock, and he flung the jar into the street where it smashed in a most satisfying strawberry splatter.

* * *

**Hello, my dears! Lovely to see so many of you! I love your reviews and more will be up soon. Have a wonderful week and send positive thoughts to Boston...**

**-Spark Writer-**


	4. Drinks and Divulgence

_Drinks and Divulgence_

"You have to admit it was a bit much, Sherlock," said John, as he recounted the jam throwing incident to Lestrade.

"When I stop to think about it, though, it's not completely out of character." Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and took a sip of his pint.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed his own untouched glass of wine away. He severely regretted agreeing to join John and Greg on their Tuesday evening soiree at a local pub; he'd just endured an hour of a successively drunker Lestrade complaining about his inability to pull off a mustache and how this greatly marred his sex appeal. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have refused Lestrade's invitation, but the detective inspector and John were a bit rattled from a terribly disfigured body they had all had to inspect, and begged Sherlock to come along for a drink. Unfortunately, John and Greg had become the worst sort of drunk that night; melancholy and _complainy_ and downright impossible.

"They're just kids," John was saying. "And I don't exactly see the point of chucking their belongings into the street."

"Belongings," scoffed Sherlock. "They were practically stage props! If I flailed around with a cane pretending to be blind, you'd be furious!"

"Ah, but you do that every other Monday morning."

Lestrade barked a laugh.

"You know what I mean, John. To be funny."

"Of course; I just don't know why it upset you so much. I'm fine, it was nothing!" John looked into Sherlock's eyes with a bemused expression. "Not that it wasn't insanely attractive," he added—Lestrade cleared his throat and fumbled to set his glass safely back on the bar counter. "But there's no need to go all vigilante, yeah?"

"Fine. Next time I shall try to restrain myself."

John grinned and leaned forward. "Excellent. That'll free you up to participate in some more interesting pursuits."

Sherlock was instantly hot all over; he reached for his wine and took a sip to avoid giving himself away.

"He's blushing," Lestrade said wonderingly, pocketing his phone and staring at Sherlock. "This is weird as hell," he mumbled.

Sherlock downed his glass.

"Remember—remember your first drugs bust?" asked Lestrade, his lips beginning to twitch.

"Like it was yesterday," Sherlock said dryly.

"Yeah, well—d'you remember exactly what it was you were doing when we walked in?"

"Yes, obviously."

"What were you doing?" asked John, looking curiously at Sherlock.

Sherlock glowered at the detective inspector. "Don't," he snapped.

"Don't what?" Lestrade asked with a terribly innocent expression.

"If you tell John what I was doing, I'll contact your superiors and tell them that you broke the Yard's statement of confidentially."

"Well, you two are together," Lestrade pointed out. "It's not as if he's some strange bloke from corporate."

"Still, those are not grounds to tell."

"Tell me what?!" asked John.

"_Nothing_," said Sherlock.

"He'll tell you eventually, John," Lestrade remarked. "He can't hold out forever."

"Just please tell me what it is you were doing, Sherlock." pleaded John.

"I can't! And I'm not the only one who's keeping things private, _Greg_, so don't tempt me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he'll deduce you in retaliation," said John.

"Well good luck with that, Sherlock." Lestrade swirled his beer meditatively. "I don't have any secrets."

"Perhaps not, but there is something you've been hiding." Sherlock straightened, pleased with the results of his deductions.

"Oh?"

"Yes, when were you going to tell everyone that you and Molly are dating?"

Lestrade made a strangled noise and slopped a bit of his drink on the floor.

"You and Molly are dating?" John looked positively ecstatic. "That's brilliant news, Greg!"

"Thanks," said Lestrade. "We weren't going to tell anyone for a while in case things didn't work out between us. We've both had some bad experiences in the dating realm."

"How did you know about this?" asked John, gazing keenly at Sherlock.

"New clothes, different cologne, no complaints about his wife, looks happy when he checks his mobile for messages—and this," Sherlock concluded, plucking a long auburn hair from Lestrade's dark grey jumper.

"Wow," said Lestrade. "Well done, you."

"Thank you," Sherlock said with clipped precision. "You have my blessings, though I daresay Mycroft will be less than pleased."

Lestrade looked confused, but said nothing more on the subject.

"I assume you've heard John's good news," Sherlock said after a brief pause.

"Yeah, bloody brilliant!"

"You're coming."

"What?"

"Let me put this in simpler terms: _you will be attending John's awards ceremony_." Sherlock fixed Lestrade with an iron do-not-resist-me stare.

John nudged Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, I told you it isn't necessary to force people to rearrange their schedules around my life."

Sherlock was confused. "But that's what you did. For me," he echoed.

"I did," said John. Then he smiled. "Because I wanted to."

"I'll come," said Lestrade, finishing off his pint. "When is it?"

"Next Friday. Seven pm." John glanced at his watch. "Shit! It's one in the morning!"

"Oh good; the naegleria parasites should have bred by now," Sherlock remarked and slipped out of his seat, smiling vaguely.

John shot an apologetic look at the bar tender and gave him a rather extravagant tip. The threesome then wandered out of the pub and into the biting chill.

"Night, you two," said Lestrade, stepping up to the curb to catch a cab. "If you make any progress with the stab-wound murder, give me a call in the morning. There's a seventy-five percent chance I'll pick up." He massaged his temples, grimacing.

"Hangover?"

"Nothing from you, Sherlock."

"Try to drink at least a half-gallon of water tomorrow."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I know how to cure a hangover. I'm not in primary school."

"Well, obviously you can't cure a hangover or half the nation wouldn't be moaning and ill on Sunday morning. You can only treat the symptoms, which, if you really think about it, isn't all that—"

"Effective," finished John. "Yes, terribly inconvenient, isn't it?" He grinned at Greg as the DI clambered into a cab, and pulled Sherlock towards one of their own.

"So," he remarked. Sherlock slid in the cab beside John and closed the door with a snap.

Sherlock knew where this was going, and it was not going anywhere good. "The drugs bust," he sighed.

"The drugs bust," agreed John. "Are you going to tell me what you were doing? Please tell me you weren't, I dunno, playing your violin in the buff or anything?"

"Nothing close," said Sherlock.

"Were you in the middle of a really weird experiment?"

"No. Well, yes, actually. A bit."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere!" John scooted closer to Sherlock and looked him dead in the eye. "You're not getting out of this one, Holmes. Divulge."

Something about the absurdity of what John was about to hear struck Sherlock as extremely funny and he huffed a laugh. "I'll tell you if you promise not to repeat this information to anyone, ever, do you understand? I mean it."

"I'll try not to let it slip to anyone at the morgue, yes."

"Most amusing, John." Sherlock decided he couldn't put off the dreaded moment any longer. "Alright. I was osculating the skull."

"What does osculating mean, exactly? Give me a few synonyms."

"You know what I mean." Sherlock made a sort of flailing motion and gestured to his mouth.

"Sorry?"

"I was…" There was really nothing else for it. "…Kissing that accursed skull."

"Oh." A flush spread across John's face and he looked caught between arousal and hilarity. "Christ."

Sherlock hurriedly looked out the window at a passing lorry, face burning. There was a moment of silence. And then John spoke: "Was it enjoyable?"

Sherlock nearly laughed, but a sudden onslaught of hot mortification suppressed it. "Well, the 'without lips' part was a bit problematic."

John giggled deep in his belly. "Oh my god. Jesus, what did Greg do?"

"Let out a sort of yelp and backed out of the room. He never actually brought the incident up again until tonight."

"But why the bloody fuck were you kissing that thing in the first place?"

"Oh, Anderson had recently called me an asexual freak—I was merely proving him wrong."

"What?" John was bemused. "How, by snapping a photograph of yourself while snogging a bodiless skull and sending it out via text?"

"Anderson was participating in the drugs bust. He walked in on my performance as well."

John paused. "Then you'd have had to—"

"Know about the drugs bust beforehand. Yes," concurred Sherlock, "I was eavesdropping on Lestrade for other reasons when he mentioned making a surprise visit to my flat to search for illegal substances. Date, time, everything."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. Love idiots; they're the best." Sherlock leant into John. "Superlative, in fact."

John gazed back, and a rewarded him with a slow, amorous smile. "Shame we're in a public place."

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly call the backseat of a cab public, would you?"

John shot a pointed look at the cabbie.

Sherlock grinned. "He used to manage a strip club. I wouldn't worry."

* * *

**Hope you like! There might be a bit of a wait for the next chapter, but don't lose hope-I'll be back with more in no time. Next up: Sherlock has hair troubles on the morning of John's award ceremony, Jealous!Mycroft, and Sherlock has a surprise run in with a very much unwanted guest.**

**Hugs,**

**-Spark Writer-**


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